Amnesia
by scotchietape19
Summary: Arthur loses his memory from a night in drinking. Francis, worried, goes to take care of him. When Arthur doesn't remember /his/ name, but remembers another man's... what is Francis supposed to think? Writen equally with my best friend Emily-The-Awkward


England felt the alcohol take over his body. How many drinks was it? Seven, fourteen, seventeen? The number continued to rise and change. The Brit held the phone tightly as vomit built up in his throat. He hated this part of drinking. "F-Francis...God... swear death is looming..." his words were a drunken slur. Arthur brought the glass to his mouth slowly as the Frenchmen started shouting to see if he was alright. England took a sip before dropping the glass with a loud crash, making Francis jump on the other end of the phone. Eight, fifteen, seventeen? "Sweetie...I love you so much..." Arthur blurted out to the confused Francis and then coughed harshly, his words slurred even worse, "My head...my heart... oh God where..." England coughed again. "Arthur! I'll be there as soon as I can - I'll take a bush plane over the channel, hold on, stay awake and for god's sake stay alive!" Francis shouted, hanging up immediately.

England could only smile and mutter, "Okay..." to the dead line. The British man looked up above his head and almost jumped out of his skin. A black floating figure was looming over top of his head, a scythe in his bone white hands and his dark purple hood hiding his black, ghoulish face. "Death, is that you?" He asked squinting his eyes. "Immah...not...weddy!" Arthur shouted at the invisible to everyone else on earth ghost, finally realizing in his drunken state that it was in fact Death. He held flying Mint Bunny closely to his chest as Sir Death closed Arthur's eyes for him.

It couldn't be the end. After only eight, fifteen or seventeen drinks. Not after he told Francis how he actually felt...it just couldn't be the end now. It couldn't. Moment after moment Arthur's memories waved goodbye and walked through the door. 'No, stop!' he cried, 'Don't leave! My name is Arthur Kirkland. Can't forget, don't forget. My name is Arthur...Arthur what? Another memory gone. Can't forget. Never forget. I love...I love someone...silky hair...pretty...Arthur is my name...

'What's that?' he thought, 'I feel something on my face...not rain... tears? Who...?' England held only a fist full left of memories tightly. He couldn't forget them. He just couldn't. 'My name is Arthur... silky hair...' Arthur slowly opened his eyes and immediately wanted to throw up. He didn't know where in the world he was. The couch he was lying on was uncomfortable, but comfortably familiar...but from where? He couldn't remember. Someone was sitting in a chair beside him, their hands over their face in a defeated posture and sobbing quietly. England reached out slowly and touched his arm, "What's wrong boy? What are you doing here?" He squinted at the stranger, "Who are you?" The blonde man looked familiar, but he couldn't remember. 'My name is Arthur...mustn't forget. Never forget. Silky smooth hair. I love someone...why did I forget?'

France nearly jumped out of his socks at the sound of Arthur's slurring voice. He jumped to his feet from the chair and grabbed the British man's hand tightly, almost desperately...why? Arthur pulled his hand away from the stranger quickly with a scared look on his face, "Who are you! G-get away!" 'The strange man has nice hair...,' Arthur noted, 'pretty blue eyes too.' The British man looked around, suddenly seeing the large monsters that were lurking in the corners of the room for the first time since Sir Death had arrived. He began to cry quietly in fear and slowly lost his lovely English accent, "What are those things?" he asked pointing to the blank, empty corners of the strangely familiar room. Francis looked confused at the messy blonde haired man in front of him. "What do you mean?" he asked looking around at the empty ceilings. "And what do you mean, 'who am I?' We've been friends..erm...rather enemies...rivals...whatever you want to call it... since forever!" France smiled coyly at the seemingly confused man in front of him...why was he acting like this...? Was he really this drunk? France placed a tender hand onto Arthur's shoulder. "My Angleterre...you certainly did have a good time drinking, didn't you?" he chuckled light heartedly but couldn't help wonder why England was acting so strangely...or why his voice was suddenly sounding so much different...so much more American...

"I'm sorry," Arthur said sadly in some cheap American accent he now possessed, "I don't know who you are." 'Damnit! Why was this so hard to remember! This guy knows who I am...why don't I know who he is?' Arthur gently pulled the stranger's hand off and smiled slightly, "I really am sorry sir...maybe you have me confused with someone else?" he wondered. France stared blankly into Arthur's eyes for a moment, completely unbelieving, but when he realized that the Brit might actually be serious a worried scowl became present on his beautiful French features and his brow pulled down slightly in the middle of his forehead. "Angleterre, it's impossible to mistake you for anyone else with those eyebrows of yours. What's gotten into you? Are you this hung over?"

Arthur looked at the Frenchmen, cocking his head slightly, "Why do you keep calling me Angleterre if my name is Arthur? That's the only thing I'm sure of so if you could sir," he glared at the stranger slightly, "Leave my house because I am not who you are looking for!"

Francis laughed a sort of hollow laugh at that. "You've always been what I've been looking for Angleterre..." France's face blushed pinkish and he looked away quickly, "And as for the reason I am calling you Angleterre, is because England, across the channel from my own country, is your country. And England, pronounced in my native language of French, is Angleterre...I've always called you that...always...do you not remember?"

Arthur hesitated, "I-I'Il call the police if you don't leave my house right now you perverted freak!" He shook his head slowly and began to tear up all over again, "I don't know who you are! I am not a country! I'm Arthur, now leave me alone!" The British man wiped a tear off of his cheek. Francis hesitated, but headed for the bedroom door thinking it best to play it the way he always played it - don't agree or not agree to anything, and do what he wanted anyway. "Oui, you are a country Angleterre, and I'm not going anywhere while your this immobile, I would bet all my riches that you can't even stand! I'm going to go make you some of my world famous crepes for breakfast considering what a bad chef you are, and what an even worse chef you are hung over." Francis winked playfully, traveling out the door as graceful as a swan and leaving a very confused Arthur lying on the couch. Arthur sat up and grabbed at his head which was now spinning in confusion, "Hung over? I don't even remember being drunk in the first place." At the moment, nothing made sense. "Was it learnt or learned...? Why do I think it's learned...?"

France entered the little British kitchen like a professional male ballerina... so graceful... a very handsome, simply manly ballerina, mind you. 'Hmm...let us see what Angleterre has left in his fridge...I bet it has all gone to rot judging by all the cobwebs around...' Francis thought to himself as he eyed the ceilings around him and ran his slender finger across the top of the fridge and then brought it down for examining - his finger came back full of dust and very old looking sludge of some sort causing him to cringe and wipe his finger on the nearest tea towel. Francis opened the fridge with the exact same expression - one of disgust, expecting something hairy and alive to jump out at him at any moment...or maybe just a horrid smell, but nothing of the sort came forth to meet his eyes save a carton of fresh organic eggs, most likely from his own privet farm, milk, also organic, and some rather hard looking scones. Whether the scorch marks upon them made them look the most unappetizing, or the fact that they looked to be about a week old did, they looked just as horrid as they always looked. That made Francis smile.

The Frenchmen opened the top cub bored over the fridge and pulled out a secret record he had stashed there long ago in case a romantic mood ever arose, which with Arthur it never did, and decided to play it while he was making his delicious crepes. France proceeded to dig out Arthur's old record player and popped the ancient French-Italian music in, immediately recognizing the age old beat and swaying and dancing his way back into the kitchen once more. France glided around the kitchen, grabbing the utensils needed to cook the beautiful French breakfast dish, and then made his way back to the fridge. Upon looking past the stone-hard scones, he found a newly picked bowl of strawberries and...Something else... A whipped cream bottle? What was this doing here...? After all his life of knowing the British men, he knew that Arthur despised even the slightest of sweets and would spit back all the delectable French candies that Francis would send him on holidays and birthdays... another smile - he was quite the character , Arthur...even Russia couldn't resist their sweetness, and yet England would always try and resist anything that came from France. Francis picked up the can and turned it around to examin it when a small yellow note from the bottom of the can floated feather-like to the floor. Francis, confused and curious, read the delicate fine print of Arthur's handwriting and began chuckling to himself. He blinked a few ties just to make sure his eyes weren't fooling him, but they weren't, and the little yellow note from the bottom of the can read, 'Bed." in beautiful cursive writing. Francis stood up and set the can down on the counter, stuffing the small not neatly into his red velvet pants, muttering to himself as he reached for the flour, "Oh Angleterre...If only I had known you kept this in your fridge...I would have came over to cook way before you got yourself drunk..." he thought, running his fingers over his lips.

Arthur stood up and began to pace worriedly. He needed to remember...who was that guy? He was apparently a childhood friend... One of the black, misty looking monsters lurked across the ceiling and began grabbing at Arthur's beautifully sculpted shoulders, "Whoneedsmemories...?" Arthur leapt backwards and yelled in fear and pain, "Leave me alone! I do!" The monster back away warily and reluctantly, knowing that with Francis gone they might have a chance at removing the rest of the Brit's memories...but decided that right now England's will was still too strong...all they needed was time...a little more time...

As France placed the finishing touches on his three, petit sized crepes, the whipped cream can in the corner edge of the counter caught his eye once more. He picked it up and stared at it longingly...he couldn't help wondering if it's use had been intended for him... shrugged a bit and dabbed a small, clean blob on top of each delicate jam rolls. They looked perfect. Smiling proudly at his country's ability to cook, Francis poured a half a glass of red wine and headed towards Arthur's room, the small plate dazzling in his hand. 'He might recall the whipped cream being used as a sexual foreplay preference rather than for normal eating...hopefully this will jog a memory.'

Stepping into Arthur's room happily, he handed the British man his breakfast with a little silver fork, and then the glass of wine. Arthur looked at the food angrily, "Is this poisoned?" He coughed slightly, feeling his British accent walk out the door and follow the same path as his memories. "I can't eat food from a stranger! Even if it does look good..." The boy looked again at the food. 'Got to remember. Try to remember...anything...whipping cream... ' Arthur's eyes narrowed and he began shouting loudly at the stranger, "This isn't meant for cooking!" Immediately cringing and looking away embarrassed, a red blush on his face.

"Hon hon hon~ I knew you would remember this." France giggled, stuffing his hand in his pocket and retrieving the little yellow sticky note. Arthur ripped the note from Francis' hands, blushing harder. "Shut it creep, this is for someone special!" But who was it again? Arthur suddenly got a small idea and grabbed the stranger close, starring into his playful blue eyes. 'Got to remember...anything... Nothing. Arthur fell backwards on the couch. "Absolutely nothing."

"Absolutely nothing...but of what exactly are you trying to remember in the first place? I could tell you a few things about yourself that might jog your memories if you would like..." The Frenchmen suggested with a smile, "Considering that right now I know more about you then you do yourself." Arthur opened an eye slowly and reluctantly, "Oh why not, it might help." He sat up slowly, "What's my full name, age, birthday, and who am I so deeply in love with?" he asked, looking deep into the Frenchmen's eyes. France could have sworn he felt his heart throb with unexplained excitement.

"Well...as for the first set of questions...your full name is Arthur England Kirkland, you are twenty-three years old and your birthday is April twenty-third...But as for who you love...It is not of importance right now...and besides, I am not even sure if you love him or not..." France looked away, his face turning slowly to more unexplained feelings - ones of gloom. Arthur held tightly onto the stranger's hand and looked desperately into his eyes, "Please! I must know! I keep thinking about whom I love and the only thing I remember about them is that he or she has silky smooth hair!" After a moment's hesitation from Francis, Arthur let go of the man's hand and sighed, "Never mind, you probably don't know..."

France felt like all he could do was hesitate today...but why? What was the good in that? Hesitating wouldn't solve anything...it was the easy way out...it didn't have the chance to wreck or make anything...shaking his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts that were screaming at him from all directions, he carefully reached for England's hand and brought it smoothly to his own silken blonde hair. "Ring a bell...?" he asked, curling England's hand in his around a lock of wheat-gold hair.

"Y-you? But I don't remember..." he closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing the stranger's golden hair slowly in between his fingers, "I-It's Antonio, right?" Arthur smiled happily. 'At least I remember something...' he thought to himself. France's heart sunk in his chest as he stared into the British man's eyes... 'He really doesn't remember, does he?' France looked longingly into England's bright, forest green eyes, his hand still curled around Arthur's hand which was still rubbing a beautiful piece of Francis' sun-bleached hair. "Guess again, Angleterre."

Arthur sighed and frowned, continuing to keep his eyes closed. 'Remember...have to remember.' He put another hand on France's silky gold locks and played with it between the fingers of both hands, the atmosphere between the two becoming very intimate. England thought long and hard before shouting his answer, a remembering light going off in his head, "Alfred! It must be!" By this time, France's heart was close to his feet. "Non, Angleterre. One more guess, and please, never mention that name around me again..." France gave England's hand a squeeze. It always felt as though he and Alfred were competing agents each other for Arthur's affections, always leaving poor Matthew alone...Matt really did love his brother more than a brother and was crushed to see him hanging around with Arthur...it also hurt him too... It hurt Francis every time Arthur even mentioned Alfred's name, mainly from jealousy, but also because not even Matthew's own brother cared about his small little heart sometimes...

"I was almost positive with that last one though," Arthur pulled the man's face closer, mouths almost touching, "You must be Alfred! I-I'm positive! I can't think of anything else but the name Alfred..." Arthur said, his hands cupping the Frenchmen's face. France was hoping he would just be hit by a bus at this point, it would defiantly hurt less and as an added bonus, it would all be over and he wouldn't have to pace, worry, fret, lose sleep over it again. Francis sighed, "Non Angleterre, it's Francis, Francis France Bonnefoy."

England's eyes widened, "Oh dear, I'm sorry Francis... I-I..." he moved back slightly. 'I should have known...why didn't I know? Francis Bonnefoy...I remember some things... childhood friends... I can't be in love with him...but I need to be sure...' Arthur slowly moved closer to Francis once more, as slowly as his impatient being would allow him to be, and asked, "I-if I may...could I..." his heart throbbed, "Kiss you?"

France's heart must have stopped and his blonde hair began to stick to the back of his neck with sweat. 'My goodness, Arthur must really be out of it...but I can't let this chance go by...I did once when he caught a horrible cold and that ever ridiculous Alfred barged in...What a cock blocker, that boy...' France shook his head again. "Be my guest."

Arthur began to breathe uneasily and leant in towards the Frenchmen's face. He looked at Francis' lips, then back to his deep blue eyes. Arthur closed his eyes and held Francis' face slightly over tightly, bringing his lips closer and closer. Arthur was afraid to go to fast, however impatient he was, because a part of him wanted to make Francis wait. He didn't know why or where the urge he felt to tease the man in front of him came from, but it was there alright. Arthur's lips were millimeters away from France's when he stopped and opened an eye slightly.

As soon as France realized that Arthur had stopped, he opened one of his eyes slightly and looked into the British man's green eyes. "Still a tease, hmm Arthur? You haven't changed a bit, have you?" France spoke quite quietly, but his voice was raspy and nervous all the same. France crawled slowly on top of Arthur, leading his head down softly and as romantically as possible to the sofa below, never releasing eye contact with each other. Francis brought his longing face inches away from Arthur's, keeping the distance tantalizingly close. "Go ahead, try me..." France purred, his half-closed blue eyes sparkling with long bottled excitement. Arthur looked at Francis stubbornly, "Maybe I want you to kiss me..." A word came to mind, "Frog."

France's heart skipped a beat as he heard his age old name being used agents him once more...except this time was different...this time it was being used in an endearing way. Francis leaned cautiously into England's waiting lips, his eyes closing tightly, stomach knotted nervously, his body jittering from his arms to his legs. "Nervous, frog?" he said softly, "don't worry, I don't bite...unless you want me to..." Arthur licked the side of Francis' face softly, trying to encourage France to go on. A few memories came back, as well as a slight accent. "I remember some more things now, you git...you are the one I love...not Alfred."

"I should hope so..." France chuckled quietly, finally gathering the courage he needed and leant forward into Arthur's face, pecking him on the lips. Immediately after they began kissing, Francis opened his mouth and allowed England's tongue to slip inside of his own mouth. Arthur blushed heavily and slowly slid his tongue inside of Francis' mouth, exploring around the sweet tasting inside. More memories began to flood through Arthur's mind, but this time they weren't as happy as before. Arthur began tearing up and slowly back off of Francis. "I can't believe I did those things...and Alfred..." He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, "Don't watch me cry frog!"

France looked at England completely confused. "What in the world does Alfred have to do with any of this? And what memories are you talking about, Angleterre?" France asked in a shocked tone, wrapping his slightly over hairy blonde arms around the British men. Arthur bit his inner cheek hard releasing some slight blood. "I-I ...he...left me and I didn't want him to...we had a fight...I couldn't hurt him...his face when he was young...still fresh in my mind..." Arthur cried, trying to hide his face from France who was still overcoming shock. "Please don't look...I hate crying in front of you, frog." Arthur sniffled, tears sliding down his cheeks. France squeezed England tightly in his arms, burying his face into the Brit's messy yellow hair. "Don't think about him right now...it will only make you feel worse and open your mind to memories even worse than that that we've all been trying to bury...memories like those of the countless wars that you and I have had in the past..." France bit his lip - he shouldn't have said anything... He didn't mean to let it slip this way, but they had never really talked about any of their wars afterword and something inside of France had pressured him to mention it.

"Other wars...? We've fought before? But I love you Francis..." Arthur moaned softly as Francis held him tightly. 'Got to remember...have to remember...pain. Suffering.' Arthur cried harder, "What was wrong with me?" he begged the answer between sobs. "Not with you Angleterre, but with us both." Francis sighed, pushing the Brit away slowly and looking deeply into his electric green eyes. Arthur fell over and hugged one of his home sewn pillows closely to his chest, "I'm so sorry...for everything..." he mumbled. "It is alright, mon cher," he whispered back, pulling the bushy eye browed man close to his comforting, snuggly body.

"But I am such a terrible person! How can you ever forgive me?" Arthur sighed, feeling like he was melting in Francis' strong arms. "How do you know you are such a terrible person if you don't even remember a quarter about yourself? You started remembering with the bad things which opened a floodgate of even worse memories... try thinking your hardest for one of the good memories...one of our good memories...go on Angleterre, I'm sure you'll remember something."

Arthur paused and closed his eyes. One memory in particular came to mind. "I tried to grow my hair because I was jealous of yours." He smiled, "I looked horrible and you cut my hair just how it used to be...correct?" England slowly patted his hair, "It still isn't anything like yours..."

France chuckled light heartedly and patted England's untamed hair with a laugh, "Correct, on both accounts." France pressed on, "anything else?" Arthur frowned and squinted harder, "I-I don't really remember much else...you wanted to marry me once...I don't really think that counts as a good memory though..." England trailed off, thinking about how viciously he turned the idea of marriage down however much he desperately wanted to say yes. "Not exactly..." Francis whispered in Arthur's ear, but neither the less smiled to encourage the slightly younger blonde haired man. "Do you remember when we played in the fields and rivers as children? Sailing our little wooden boats off into the English channel on warm summer days?" Francis asked.

Arthur smiled, "When you caught a fish with your bare hands only to drop it..." Arthur's voice dropped significantly lower, "a-and when we found America..." he muttered. "You mean when we found America together and he picked you over me...?" France scowled. He still couldn't believe that anyone on this earth was able to turn down his cooking...except for England of course. "Yeah," England muttered and looked down with a smile, "He was really cute back then...wasn't he?" Arthur asked looking up and Francis. France nodded slowly and looked away, a distant look in his blue eyes. "Oui, he was... and he grew up to be a pretty handsome man too." France smiled slightly despite the slight jealousy. Arthur frowned, "I guess...too bad he'll be an obese diabetic by the age of twenty-nine."

France burst out laughing and patted the British man on the shoulder, "Welcome back."


End file.
